


Smote and smitten

by NohaIjiachi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale being the one to play hero for once, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, This Is Sappy As Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:45:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NohaIjiachi/pseuds/NohaIjiachi
Summary: “Oh, I picked just fine,” Aziraphale replied, cheerfully. “The point is, my dear fellow— Is that Crowley, while in possession of many talents, might indeed not be a heavy weight—““Yes, that’s why—““But I am.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 993





	Smote and smitten

**Author's Note:**

> There's two more kink meme prompts fill that I'll have to post here after this one lol, but this one may be a fav of mine. Short, sweet and fluffy, inspired by [this prompt!](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1058920#cmt1058920)
> 
> Have fun~

_Well, this was bound to happen_, Aziraphale thought, although it did nothing to placate the discontent he could already feel rising from the depths of his insides.

It made sense, really. Hell must be full of the vengeful sorts— Well, alright, he had to be honest, _both_ Heaven and Hell must be full of vengeful sorts, but it made sense that Hell’s agents lacked, for the most part, the finesse of serving said vengeance cold. Which might also be a good thing, if one were to look at the glass half full. An enemy charging you from the front was easier to deal with, than one scheming behind your back.

Still, Aziraphale was _very_ displeased. They were having such a lovely night… Went to watch a play together in the late afternoon, and came out of it right on time for dinner. They’ve found this delightful little Chinese restaurant, which dumplings were just so _perfect_. Even Crowley, who usually ate less than half his orders and then pushed them not-so-subtly toward Aziraphale had actually emptied his plate, which Aziraphale hadn’t minded at all. It was so nice, seeing Crowley enjoy food more than he usually did.

Also Crowley had seemingly felt guilty for breaking their usual dinner habits and ordered more dumplings, to make it up to Aziraphale, so no harm done, there.

And they’ve been chatting so nicely, discussing the play, with the pleasing familiarity of those who were used to those sorts of discussions. Soft, fond jabs were had, eyes rolled affectionately, and their hands stayed stubbornly linked almost through the entirety of the meal, only separating to serve each other more wine and then find their way back to keep their fingers linked without having to say a thing.

And _then_ Crowley had proposed to walk, rather than drive.

“I’ll go get her back tomorrow morning,” he said so softly, and Aziraphale knew that it was just because neither of them wanted to break that contact between them, as they stopped near the Bentley. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Aziraphale had looked right up into Crowley’s eyes with _so_ much in his silver gaze, and they stood there for long seconds, hand in hand, just silently exchanging so much.

“I’d love to, my dear,” he then murmured, giving a soft squeeze, and in the never dark London night he could see Crowley close his eyes behind his sunglasses for a second, before opening them and squeezing back.

And so they walked, in a silence so companionable, so soft, like a warm hug. They’d bump shoulders every now and then, and they both knew it was on purpose as they’ve spent millennia walking side by side, very studiously _not_ bumping shoulders. They bumped shoulders and held hands, and walked through Hyde Park which was supposed to close in a matter of minutes, but would stay open just for them, and Aziraphale felt like he was back in a Heaven that never really existed.

This was his Heaven, really. His Eden. The one he loved the most right by his side, a gentle contact between them, and a silence that spoke volumes as they strolled through a city that had long become part of them, sinking its roots in their hearts.

They stopped by The Serpentine, watching the lights dance on the quiet waters, and Aziraphale had known that would be _the moment_. Finally, the last step. It had been weeks since they’d started to dip their toes in their newfound freedom, and it had been a slow journey. Aziraphale felt ready to take that step pretty much the second they swapped back in their respective bodies, but Crowley— He definitely seemed like he needed some time. A period of self-reflection, to get used to this new phase of their lives.

And Aziraphale— Aziraphale once said ‘you go too fast’, and Crowley had slowed down for him. So Aziraphale would wait for as long as Crowley needed, it felt only fair.

But that would be it, he could tell. He stood still, and patient, as Crowley almost nervously sneaked his fingers through Aziraphale’s when they slowed down to a stop without needing to be prompted. Aziraphale stood, and waited, head tipped up toward Crowley as Crowley turned to face him fully, sliding his glasses off his face. He waited as those were tucked into Crowley’s jacket pocket, as Crowley silently looked down at him, stared at him with a quiet intensity, forgetting to even blink.

“…Aziraphale,” Crowley started to say, something charged in his voice, and Aziraphale had felt his heart soar, ready, so ready to finally take this step—

And then, a loud pop, followed by the smell of sulphur, and the moment had been ruined. Crowley groaned loudly, letting his head loll backwards, as if asking _someone_ up there for strength.

“Who’s the _shitstain_ that had this brilliant idea?!” Crowley asked the darkness, none of the softness he’d poured onto Aziraphale for the entire night to be seen. He was a coiled snake, ready to strike, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand with a quick, apologetic look, and then stepping in front of him protectively.

And oh, it was so nice. Of course Crowley’s first instinct would be to shield Aziraphale with his entire body. Of course. Aziraphale felt almost like swooning, for a second— But then the figures started to emerge, and it was clear that this wasn’t a one man revenge mission—

This was a planned, calculated attack, hope poured in the strength of numbers. Two against— Many.

The odds did not look good. And Aziraphale could see that Crowley must be having rather similar thoughts because, while he squared his shoulders in an attempt to make himself more imposing, his steps still faltered as he moved backwards, bumping into Aziraphale just slightly.

“Did you really think you’d get to just— Live your disgusting little life here, with that— Thing?” Duke Hastur emerged in between the many Demons, and there was no question left as of who organised this ambush. He also said ‘thing’ with as much contempt as he could muster, while gesturing vaguely to Aziraphale, and Crowley _growled_.

“Had to know it’d be you,” Crowley then said, cold irony in his voice. “Can’t let it go, little toad, can you? You’ve _lost_, just give up and accept it, Hastur.”

Hastur’s nostrils flared, black eyes a pool of malice.

“Belzeebub might be too much of a coward to do something about it, but I _can_. You’re not sneaking your way out of this, Crowley, we’ll tear you to pieces, and then we’ll take care of your little pet, too—“

Crowley growled again, an arm thrown out as if shielding Aziraphale even more.

“—They won’t even be able to recognize it once we’ll be done with it.”

“Saying one of your lords is a coward…” Crowley said, clearly buying time. Aziraphale could almost see the cogs turning under his beautiful red hair he was letting grow once again. “I don’t think they’d be pleased about it, if they caught wind of it, hasty-Hastur.”

“It’s a good thing they won’t hear anything about this, not until I will be done, at least.” Hastur replied through gritted teeth. He made a wide arm gesture, voice rising. “What are you all waiting for?! Go get ‘em! They are just a pair of spineless idiots, they don’t stand a chance!”

And Aziraphale— Well, it was all very dashing, the way Crowley was shielding him, and Aziraphale did love so very much to have Crowley play the part of the hero, flying in to save the day—

But sometimes… Sometimes things required a certain touch. And Aziraphale knew that for all his posturing, Crowley had hardly any violent bone in his body. He was a thinker, an artist, a poet— A fighter, he was not.

And Aziraphale?

Well, Aziraphale choose to be soft.

But he was _made_ to fight.

“If I may…”

A silence fell like a blanket of stones, as everyone, Crowley included, turned to look at him. As if they expected him to play the part of the meek little Angel, cowering behind his protector, scared into silence. Aziraphale knew Hastur must have a lot of ideas of how the night would’ve played out, and Aziraphale’s part in it. No doubt, the Duke expected to goad over a crying Angel, before taking great care in destroying his corporation…

Well, it seemed as if they were all going to be in for a surprise, that night.

“Angel?” Crowley hissed, clearly concerned, as Aziraphale gave his arm a gentle pat and stepped forward, very much the image of polite coldness.

“If I may,” he repeated, clasping his hands in front of his chest. “I would like to give you all some time— A chance to retreat, before things get ugly. This will be my only warning.”

Another stunned silence rose, and then the Demons -minus one- roared in a group laugh.

“Oh, the little Angel is giving us a warning,” one of them sing-songed, tilting their head on a side repeatedly, their big, dragonfly-like eyes shimmering in the artificial lights. “How cute!”

“As if!” Hastur huffed, making a dismissive hand-wave. Aziraphale kept smiling pleasantly. “I _know_ your lot, _Angel_. You were too weak and too afraid to fight, and so you sought the protection of something stronger than you. Poor choice, though, I mean—“ he made another dismissive gesture toward Crowley. “He’s no heavy weight, now, is he? You should’ve picked your champion a bit better.”

“Oh, I picked just fine,” Aziraphale replied, cheerfully. “The point is, my dear fellow— Is that Crowley, while in possession of many talents, might indeed not be a heavy weight—“

“Yes, that’s why—“

“_But I am._”

Not much else needed to be said. Aziraphale did not even give them the time to launch even a single disbelieving look in his direction. Those last words were spoken with a voice like steel, like echoes in a cavern with no bottom, many voices speaking into one, making the words rumble in one’s depths of the soul.

The flaming sword was in his hand, summoned, rejoicing. For millennia the blade had been misplaced, misused, fought in battles it did not want to fight, cast away by its rightful owner— But now it was being held with intent, now it was a proper battle, a real battle, and the strength of its owner was running through every atom of its being. The flames roared and shifted, turning a pure white, like the wings that were spread, casting a blinding light that made the Demons cower.

The blade almost sung as it slashed through Demons. It was still being held back, it could tell, its owner wanting to make a point rather than bring blind destruction, but the sword didn’t mind. It was the first time it was really being used, the first time it was so in sync with the one it had been made for, and it couldn’t be happier.

The white flames quieted and died down, as the sword felt its owner calm once more after the heat of battle. It had been so fast, and only a shard of the real power the Guardian of the Eastern Gate ran through the blade, now.

“Wha— How—“ the foolish one stammered, as the sword and its owner stood over him, looming with a menacing glow.

“_You shall be thankful,_” the Guardian said, his voice still sounding like a chorus of unearthly voices. “_That I still am in possession of some compassion. There won’t be a second time, Duke. Return to whence you came from, and do not come back. Whoever will step into my territory next will not be as lucky, so you shall make sure to warn your companions, am I clear?_”

“I—“

“_Am I,_” the Guardian uttered, and the blade tasted just a brief lick of he foolish one’s blackened blood. “**_Clear?_**”

“Fuck! Yes, yes, you crazy bastard!” the foolish one screamed, almost in hysterics, and then sunk into the ground, disappearing from view.

The power was drained entirely, and the sword went back to sleep, content. At least once it had been wielded as it should’ve been, and it could consider itself satisfied, indeed.

Outside the confines of a sword’s very brief moment of consciousness, a Demon stood frozen on the spot, mouth slightly open. The ground in front of him was scorched with streaks left by a holy fire, but his eyes were for one thing, and one thing only.

“…_Angel_.”

“Oh, I do apologize, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, back to his usually fussy mannerisms. He made a vague gesture, and the sword disappeared. “Ah, I hope I put it back in the right place…”

“Aziraphale—”

Aziraphale turned, wings tucked away and not a sign on him, looking like he did hardly anything more exciting than shooing away an insistent pigeon. He smiled, mild, as Crowley openly gaped at him. Inarticulate noises were uttered, and vague gestures made, before Crowley finally managed to string together a coherent sentence.

“What was— That?” he said, sounding slightly breathless.

“That…” Aziraphale replied, very studiously calm. “Was a message, I’d imagine. I hope it’ll find its way upstairs, as well, just to make things— Clear.”

“Angel,” Crowley repeated, very softly.

“I won’t have anyone threaten what we finally have, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, suddenly deadly serious. “And I certainly won’t have anyone threaten _you_. There are times for words— This was not one. This was a time for action,” and then he fidgeted, hands clasped in front of his belly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t— Deal with it, or— You were doing marvellously, my dear, really, but I was— Ah, very vexed by the interruption, I must say.”

Crowley closed his mouth. He was still sans glasses, and his golden eyes moved about, a sharp light in them.

“Yes, so was I,” he then said, cautious. He stepped forward, and Aziraphale waited, a small smile pulling at his lips as Crowley offered his hand palm up, once in front of him. Aziraphale promptly deposited his own hand in it, and Crowley closed his eyes briefly.

“…Do you feel like— Going on?” Aziraphale then asked, very softly, and Crowley let out a long breath through his nose.

“Yes, but not here,” he said, somewhat rough. “I— I think we should go somewhere more private, I—“

Aziraphale waited patiently once more, following with no small amount of interest the movement of Crowley’s throat as he gulped.

“Fuck, Angel,” Crowley finally snapped, squeezing his fingers. “That was— I would say that you should bring _that_ out more often, but also I don’t think I’d survive it. I might need to lie down a bit just from witnessing it.”

At that Aziraphale spluttered and laughed, cheeks pinking.

“Oh, my dear… Let’s not linger, then. I’ll be happy to have you lie down on my bed, if you so wish.”

“Ngk.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“_Shit_— Sure, whatever, you are in charge, tonight, Angel. Let’s go.”

Aziraphale pulled, smiling, and Crowley went, pliant. He was starting to see why did Crowley enjoy so much jumping in to be the hero, there surely was a certain— Satisfaction, in the openly smitten look he was receiving.

Maybe, if more occasions rose, they could play the part in turns. He’d have to propose the idea to Crowley… Once he’d have the presence of mind to actually understand what Aziraphale was asking, that was!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/NohaVale)


End file.
